


The Vegetable Hams of Arse-ary

by Rivine



Category: Original Work
Genre: Misuse of Weaponry/Tools, Multi, Object Insertion, POV: Rapist, Plants, Ritual or Spell Requires Rape, outdoor rape, painful anal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 19:17:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivine/pseuds/Rivine
Summary: Fuck the butts, save the harvest.





	The Vegetable Hams of Arse-ary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nonconamod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonconamod/gifts).



> This was such an amazing pairing tag, and I want to let whoever nominated it know how much delight it brought me.

The witch pounded on the farmer’s door.

“Get out here,” she yelled, and switched to hammering at the door with her broomstick instead of her fist.

Finally, it swung open. The farmer, his hair disheveled from sleep and his shirt askew, stared at her in confusion. 

“What—”

“We have to save your harvest!”

“From what?” he asked, already turning away. “I’ll get my pants—”

“You won’t need them,” she said. 

“What?”

“I said, you won’t need them. We have to fuck your crops. Pants will only get in the way.”

The farmer glared at her. “Now listen, I’m a busy man and I don’t have time for your nonsense, or for you getting me riled up worrying about my harvest over nothing.”

“Get a move on,” she insisted. “It’s going to be a hot day and we have a whole field to get through.”

“Leave me be, you—” The farmer stopped abruptly. He was looking past the witch, to the little lane that ran toward his fields. 

Two children were running down it, laughing wildly and carrying what appeared to be pairs of pale green, disembodied buttocks. One stopped laughing long enough to yell, “Butts, butts, butts!” provoking even harder laughter from the other child. 

“Little bastards,” the witch muttered. “They’ll ransack your whole field if we don’t get your plants turned back, mark my words.”

“What the fuck,” the farmer said. “My plants turned into butts?”

“Yes, and now we need to fuck them back.”

“What the _fuck_.” The farmer pushed past the witch and tore off towards his field, pausing only to yell futilely at the children to put their purloined butts back.

The witch followed him down the lane at a more moderate pace, shaking her head at the farmer’s waste of energy when there was a long, hard day ahead. 

She found him standing at the edge of his field, staring at the neat rows of asses. 

“But how…” he said, trailing off in disbelief and dismay.

“You probably offended one of the fertility gods,” the witch told him. “Have you been having orgies in the field? Jerking off onto it?”

“What? No!”

“Well,” she said, “you’ve really only got yourself to blame, then.” It was sad, she thought, how many people didn’t know better than to keep themselves out of trouble. But she couldn’t be too hard on the poor man, after all; even the Witches’ Council had shocking lapses in basic knowledge. Why, not a one of them had known about the slug rites, and they’d even tried to revoke her license when she told them! It was a damn shame, what the world was coming to. But it was her duty as a witch to try to set it right, so she girded her loins. “Now, it’s off to work, then. Don’t go easy on them, or they’ll never turn back.”

“My gods, you’re serious, aren’t you?” the farmer asked. “You actually mean I have to fuck these things?”

“Of course you have to! Just because I’m here to help you doesn’t mean I’m going to do all the work myself.”

“You’re insane,” he said. “Just as mad as everyone says.”

“Hey! Listen up, butt farmer. Are you a witch? Are you an expert on magical transformations and curses? No? Then unless you want your crops to stay this way, you’d better pay attention. And believe you me, harvesting butts is a tough life. No fancy noble is going to buy direct from a peasant like you, and the ass merchants run a hard bargain. They’ll have you out here massaging lotion into these butts three times a day, and still only pay you pennies for your trouble.”

The farmer glared at her, but it was the helpless anger of a man who knows he’s out of his depth, and isn’t wearing any pants on top of that.

“So you do what I say," the witch said, "and you fuck these butts. And be rough about it, or else they’ll decide it’s fun and stay this way.” 

The farmer swore under his breath, but turned his gaze to the row of butts in front of him. Satisfied that he would at least try to do his part, the witch left him to get started on her own. She knelt beside the row at her feet, eyeing the closest butt appraisingly. 

Unlike the smooth, green butts the children had stolen, it was orange and dimpled with a few light creases. The witch prodded it with the end of her broomstick, and it yielded with a suppleness belied by its pert, taut buttocks. With one hand, she spread its cheeks apart. They were cool, and still wet with the morning’s dew. In a firm, decisive motion, she slid the broomstick between them. The butt clenched around it, trying to resist, but she gave the broomstick a twist and pushed it into the butt’s tight hole. 

The witch heard a low groan, and then a surprised grunt, off to her side. She didn’t look up from her task, instead giving a few short thrusts until the butt quivered and suddenly became a carrot. It was rooted meekly in the ground, its leaves drooping slightly, but otherwise back to its original vegetable self. 

The witch checked on the farmer’s progress as she shifted herself down the row to the next butt, which was white with a pink blush across the tops of its buttocks. He was on his hands and knees, his cock hard and a shocked look on his face. 

“It’s a cabbage,” he said. 

“Yes, that’s the point.”

“It should be barley. I planted barley. Why the hell is it a cabbage?”

“Barely?” the witch asked. “Well, that can’t be right. Barley turns into tits.”

“You’re doing this, aren’t you?” the farmer demanded. “You turned my barely into butts, and now it’s cabbages and carrots!”

“What a ridiculous thing to say!”

“You’re crazy, and everyone knows a crazy witch makes all kinds of weird shit happen.” 

“Here I am, ready to wear my wrist out helping you fuck your field back, and you start accusing me. The nerve!” 

He glowered, but he cast a look over the field of butts—the smooth, round melon-butts scattered haphazardly among the carrot-butts and lumpy rutabaga-butts, the beet-butts dark red spots among the pale radish- and leek-butts—and sighed. He must have realized it would take him at least twice as long to get through them all alone, because without another word he shuffled along to the next butt and lowered himself onto it. 

“That’s the spirit,” the witch said, and she rammed her broomstick into the next butt in her row. “You should be able to fuck quite a few back before you come. Get them done as quick as you can, and your dick will thank you for it.” She’d probably have to give the ungrateful farmer a salve for the chafe anyway, but at least these plants were nothing like the onion patch she had had to turn back years ago. Those had been so tough and stubborn that they’d had to set up shifts, her and the two farmers and a traveling doctor who’d rolled up her sleeves and pitched in. 

This was shaping up to be a tender, delicate field of butts. They were sensitive plants, used to soft soil and gentle rain, and at worst a bit of rough weeding stirring up excitement around them while they remained safe. They likely thought becoming butts was going to be nothing but a bit of fun, and were wholly unprepared for the harsh shock of an un-lubricated broomstick or cock being forced inside them. The poor things didn’t know what hit them, and quickly reverted to their former shapes to escape it. 

The next butt the witch came to was an odd one, a pallid beige color and somehow both lumpy and thin. She eyed it for a moment before prodding its asshole with her broomstick. It flinched and squirmed, and popped back into a parsnip when she shoved the broomstick home. 

It became something to pass the time, as she pounded her broom into butt after butt: guessing what vegetable she was violating. The broccoli was the same dark green as the kale, but had a softer skin. The turnips had a more purple cast to the tops of their cheeks than the radishes, and the aubergines were a lovely, deep, glossy purple all over. The celeriac was just plain unfortunate. 

It was a long, hot slog through the field. The dew evaporated away quickly under the strong, clear sunlight, and there was not a patch of shade in sight. Sweat soon slicked the witch’s palm, and she began trading off hands with the broomstick. The farmer was gasping and panting as he humped his way along the row, too short of breath to keep up the quiet string of curses he’d maintained at the start. The smell of green growing things hung heavy around them, rising off the perky butts still ahead of them and the subdued, dispirited vegetables left in their wake. 

Slowly, despite the witch's aching wrist and the farmer's worn-out cock, they plowed the field, one trembling, traumatized plant at a time.


End file.
